I sleep with my window open.
My room is cold and sometimes damp with rain,
The condensation like a tear on my cheek.
I curl beneath my quilt,
As small as I once was,
And let the darkness flood me, as it often does.

It's a strange kind of pain, that night,
One I can't help but admire.
And when that inky sky drips in through my open window,
sleep snatches me first.

A time passes.
It is cool when my eyes open,
Decorated with black snowflakes that lie upon my eyelashes.
The sun has begun her own descent,
The sky foreshadowing of her coming.
It is then,
When I'm bruised and shivering,
That the birds still sing.
And I listen to them for hours.